


Nature Is A Language

by failsworth



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gothic, Historical, M/M, Reincarnation, True Love, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsworth/pseuds/failsworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They first met in 1557, yet become truely one in 1857.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a college assignment, in which I had to write a small piece of writing that contained gothic conventions, so this is very typically a piece of gothic writing. It has a vague allusion to death, but not really? And maybe a hint at violence, but not graphically so.  
> Title taken from The Smiths - Ask.  
> Enjoy!

Prologue: Italy, Spoleto, 1557  
“Run, Francesco! You must run faster, my love, or else we will be caught!”  
“I cannot run any faster, Gerardo,” Francesco panted, coming to a dizzy stop in the middle of the dense woods, the trees like a thick cloak of earthy colours, concealing them and keeping them safe. For now. “I feel faint,” Francesco breathed, leaning back against a tree trunk, his pale face turned up against the black sky. He could still hear the distant angry shouts of the villagers, building and building.  
“Oh, il mio amore,” Gerardo said as he walked over to his mate. "So fragile, such a delicate creature you are, Francesco. My Frankie, a little flower. Yes, my little flower, il mio fiore,” Gerardo murmured as he petted Francesco’s brow. “Come, amore. We must keep moving,” he whispered, pressing his lips against the shell of Francesco’s ear before scooping him up in his arms and turning to run through the forest with his mate in his arms. Before Gerardo could even take one step more into the forest, an arrow pierced the back of his shoulder. The shock of the sharp pain made Gerardo cry out and drop his mate on to the ground.  
“Gerardo, lupo forte, what is the matter?” Francesco cried, sprawled in the dirt, before the shouts and chants suddenly got louder and louder and a storm of villagers ran into the small clearing in the forest, baring pitchforks and fire.  
Gerardo tore the arrow from his body and ignored the pain shooting through his back; it would be heeled in a second anyway. He pulled his mate up from the ground and held him tight to his chest, away from the surrounding threat of the villagers. A feral growl ripped out of his throat as they circled the lovers, brandishing their weapons and moving closer.  
“Stop,” a hollow, echoing voice suddenly said. The mob stopped their shouts and a thick silence settled between the enemies. The crowd parted and a cloaked figure made its way into the clearing. The shawl concealing the head was removed and a pair of icy eyes set in a weathered, leathery face was revealed. “Francesco Iero, you have made a grave decision,” said the ancient woman in a rasping, deadly voice. “You left a young woman unmarried on her wedding day to run away with a Child of the Devil. You have committed the worst of sins and you, and your mate, are sentenced to death.” She took a step closer to Francesco and Gerardo, seeming unafraid of the monster before her. “Your family will never forget what you have done to my granddaughter. You will never forget,” she hissed, the cold chill of her voice sending shivers through Francesco’s small body.  
The old woman suddenly leapt back and threw her arms up into the air and clapped once. The thick, black clouds trudging in the sky parted suddenly with a flash of light and the Heavens opened up on them, spilling harsh, cold drops onto their skin.  
The crowd began chanting in low voices, a choir of vengeful murmurs. The old woman still whispering murderously at the couple; you will never forget, you will never forget. The wintery blue of her eyes grew paler and paler as the chanting crowd grew louder and louder until the colour was barely distinguishable from the whites and she threw her head back and clapped once more. A tall, enforcing wall of flames shot up around the lovers, the black smouldering flames, tinged green at the tips, encasing them in a circle.  
“Gerardo!” Francesco cried, searching blindly for his mate as the thick clouds of smoke blocked his vision. He felt strong arms around his back and turned around immediately to bury himself in the chest of his mate. The flames were building, thickening, spreading along the forest floor and trapping them in a smaller and smaller circle. Francesco began choking on the smoke as he struggled to breathe, the dirty black clouds clogging his lungs. He could feel Gerardo heaving with the smog too. He began to cry louder, realising that they would not be able to escape, the continuous chanting of the hateful mob still on going in the foreground.  
“My love, do not let them hear your cries,” Gerardo choked out in to Francesco’s ear. “They do not deserve anything from you, especially not your pain. You are not afraid, are you? I’m right here, amore, and I’m never going to leave.”  
“No, lupo forte, I am not afraid,” Francesco said hoarsely. He was not afraid. He would rather die with Gerardo than live without him. “We will see each other again, won’t we?” He begged.  
“Always, il mio fiore. Until next time…” Gerardo breathed. The only thing he could manage before the black consumed his brain was to hold his love tighter.  
Until next time, Francesco thought before he felt the flames licking at his feet and the smoke finally clogging his lungs enough that he could no longer breathe.  
The mob chanted on into the dark, lonely night.

 

You will never forget, you will never forget.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1: Italy, Spoleto, 1857  
Halloween night, the year: 1857, was the first time it happened. The night was particularly dark, but beautiful; swirling navy skies, glinting eyes of speckled white stars and the giant, bright circle of pure light, heavy and dense in the sky, watching, waiting and listening. The blurry shapes of pale clouds dragged across the sky and the strong gale winds left the trees naked, dancing wildly, branches twisting and waving in exotic, black shadows across the sky.

Francesco Antony Iero sat on the cold, grey-stone wall at the bottom of the grand gardens of his family’s estate. The Iero mansion loomed in the background, heavy and sad, a black shadow against the deep blue sky. He could hear music and laughter from inside the house drifting through the lonely gardens and see the lights and colour flickering a reflection in the pond beside him.  
His parents, Duke, Duca, Salvatore Iero and Duchess, Duchessa, Jovanna Iero, were holding a grand Halloween masquerade in joint celebration of Francesco’s 21st birthday and his wedding, which was to take place the very next day.   
His parents, after Frank’s particularly fragile health had flared up again and he had wound up almost dying from his third time with pneumonia, had arranged a marriage for him in the fear that their only child would die without leaving any heirs to the family wealth.   
The young lady, Maria Donia Rossi, was chosen on the wealth and social status of her family and, apparently, had been deemed suitable for a gentleman of Frank’s nobility and standing. Francesco had met her all of one time and that had been the night of the masquerade, the day before they were due to spend the rest of their lives together.   
Frank had found it strange and eerie, people concealing their identity in mysterious masks, so had left the celebration, of what he wasn’t sure, in the hope of some privacy.   
He always found himself down at the bottom of the gardens, right where their gardens ended and the wild forests began. He sat down wearily and rubbed at his sunken, tired eyes and contemplated last night’s dreams. They are always the same images, since he was a child, sometimes clearer and sharper and louder, or more blurry and confused, but always the same; flashes of sharp green, animalistic eyes; pointed razor fangs, white and dripping vibrant dark red; sleek black fur covering a large wolf body, thickly muscled and lethal; terrified clenching in his chest, burning at his feet and whispered, peaceful words at his ear.  
Francesco shivered at the thought and sighed. The dreams, or nightmares, always confused him. He never knew whether he was scared or happy. Did he love the animal, or was he afraid of it?   
He did not know.

 

Frank was feeling queasy. His skin prickled, his nose was blocked and his stomach seemed to be full of butterflies. His head felt cramped and he suddenly felt like he had to be in the forest, to be free and wild; uncontained.   
He leapt up from the wall, feeling jittery and dizzy, and stumbled his way into the dense forest, breathing heavily and swaying on his feet. He fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees as the prickling in his skin got stronger. He watched the clouds drift through the night sky through the gaps in the trees, slowly revealing the whole, yellow moon. Francesco arched his back and screamed as a soaring pain shot through his spine and his bones seemed to shift and crack out of place. There was another blast of pain that drenched his whole body and then he was sprawled on the forest floor, panting and whimpering. 

He noticed something was different immediately; for when he stood up on shaky legs, there were four instead of two. Four lean, fur-coated legs instead of two, pale and skinny human legs. He tried walking a few careful, experimental steps and found that he suddenly felt right. Like all along he had been waiting for this, even if he hadn’t realised that he had been waiting for something.   
He took off at a run, bounding through the forest, dodging trees with ease, his lean body made for this. He noticed the simplicity of his mind in this body, although some things were more complicated as there was a lot of new things; he could smell everything; the raw, earthy smell of the forest floor; the damp, woody scent of the trees; the different smells of other animals. His vision was sharp and his hearing even sharper. His animal mind gave in to instincts more easily, naturally. He wanted to run; so he did. He was hungry; so he caught a lone rabbit easily and ate it.  
He ran for a while in the forest until he came to a clearing in the trees and the edge of the small stream running through the forest. He caught sight of his reflection in the water as he leaned down to drink. A wolf’s pale face reflected back at him in the shadowed water. He had pale grey, soft fur, shading darker on his back and on the tip of his tale, and going white around his muzzle and eyes; the same pale green he had as a human. He was larger than an average wolf and somehow more superior; his teeth bigger, his ears sharper and his body quicker and more agile.  
He bent his neck further down, dipping his muzzle into the water and drinking. When he stood straight again he was met with another wolf, taller and more built, standing no more than two feet away from him, at the opposite side of the stream.   
He recognised the wolf immediately; the sharp, dark green eyes sent a piercing tug at his heart as he took a small, hesitant step forward. He knew this wolf, he definitely knew him, but he couldn’t quite place him. It didn’t matter anyway as the larger wolf moved gracefully, radiating power, over to Francesco. Standing tall and royal over him, the sleek, black wolf bowed his head against Frank’s, pushing his muzzle gently against the side of Frank’s; wet, black nose sliding softly, sweetly against Frank’s pale pink nose. Frank made a low, huffing sound against the large wolf’s neck as they curled up together in the clearing, peaceful and content.


End file.
